“Burn it!” Pippin sang.
Understanding from the delight in her face that she liked a bonfire as much as any other child, he grinned and bent to grasp the lower edge of the tarpaulin. “No,” he said when Pippin came to help him. “You go to the opposite side and lift the edge. That way, when I pull it down the slope, none of the pile will fall back and off the tarpaulin.”
“Oh.” Her delight didn’t dim. “Yes, I see.”
Together they dragged the tarpaulin down to the far corner of the orchard, where there was plenty of clear space for a fire. Dropping the edge he’d dragged, Thomas circled around and joined Pippin, and together, with much laughter from her and silent grins from him, they raised the tarpaulin, tipping the wood off it as they dragged the material free.
Thomas glanced at the resulting rather haphazard pile. “Let’s make it up into a proper bonfire, then we should go back and gather our tools, take them back to the stables, and then we can come back and set our bonfire alight.”
“Yes!” Pippin danced and darted, picking up loose branches and setting them atop the pile.
Swiftly Thomas shifted some of the larger branches to give the pile a better structure, then he largely let Pippin dance and have fun.
Her gaiety was infectious.
When the bonfire was built, they did as he’d decreed and took the tools back to the stable. Pausing only to collect some dry tinder from the wood box, they made their way back to the far corner of the orchard.
The weather had been clear for some time, and in most of the branches they’d cut, the sap had yet to properly rise. It wasn’t hard to set fire to their pile.
As twigs caught and flames started to crackle and lick their way through the stacked wood, Thomas stood back and checked that Pippin was maintaining a safe distance from the conflagration, then settled to watch.
Bit by bit, the greedy flames spread, until at last the pile erupted with a muted roar.
Pippin had gradually moved back. As the fire settled to consume the apple tree’s blighted branches, she drifted to stand by Thomas’s side.
Without warning, she slipped a small hand into one of his.
He glanced down, even as his fingers instinctively tightened about hers. Not too tightly, just enough to hold her hand, to respond . . .
Pippin sighed and leaned against him, nestling her head against his side.
Something inside him stilled.
Such innocent, unconditional trust . . . it rocked him.
He drew in a shallow, not entirely steady breath and, raising his head, looked at the flames.
A minute later, he heard from behind them, “What are you burning?”
Glancing around, he saw his housekeeper—Pippin’s mother. He glanced down at the little girl and was no longer so sure of their relationship.
Straightening, Pippin barely glanced back, but, instead, jigged at his side. “Thomas and me are burning up all the bad branches off my tree.” Pippin pointed to the apple tree. “See? We had to cut and cut to get all the sick branches off, and now”—with a sweep of her little arm, she indicated the bonfire—“we’re burning them all up so my tree can get well without catching the sickness again.”
She glanced up at him, met his eyes, smiled brilliantly, then looked back at the fire.
Her mother came to stand alongside her; over Pippin’s head, Mrs. Sheridan met his eyes.
She studied them, studied his face, then she inclined her head. Gratitude shone clearly in the soft brown of her eyes.
Eyes she shared with Pippin, but . . . he had to wonder.
Rose stood silently beside Pippin and watched as the pile of branches burned steadily down.
She felt touched, truly grateful that Thomas—Glendower—had been kind enough, had empathized enough with a little girl’s wishes, her childish feelings, to change his tack. She’d seen him walk across the rear garden with his axe, but she had gone into the sitting room at the front of the house after that; she’d heard Pippin rush out but hadn’t known she’d joined him.
Hadn’t known that he’d intended to attack the ailing apple tree.
A light breeze sprang up, wafting the smoke their way. She wanted to thank him but couldn’t think how.
He waved at the fire. “It’s low enough to leave.” Turning, he gestured toward the house. “We should go in.” He met Rose’s eyes. “It must be time for afternoon tea.”
She smiled, then drew breath and nodded. “Yes, it is—and thank you, Thomas.” Before he, or she, could dwell on her use of his name, she glanced down at Pippin and smiled. “There are fresh scones, clotted cream, and blackberry jam for tea. After all this work, you must both be hungry.”
Pippin whooped. But instead of tearing off to the house as Rose had expected, Pippin darted up the slope, retrieved Thomas’s cane from where it had lain in the grass, and danced it back to him. “Come on, Thomas.” She waited until he accepted the cane, then she took his free hand. Her other hand grasping Rose’s, she started towing them both up the slight slope. “Let’s go and have our tea!”
Rose glanced at Thomas—her enigma of an employer—took in his profile as he smiled down at Pippin, and silently fell in with Pippin’s plans.
Curtis, the highly respected owner of what was arguably London’s most respected inquiry agency, rounded his desk. Pulling out the chair behind it, he glanced at his client, seated before the desk.
“Well?” Richard Percival demanded. “Your note said you have news.”
Elegantly turned out, his aristocratic features arranged in a mask of polite boredom—one that was, just fractionally, cracking—his dark hair fashionably styled in a windblown tumble with one dark lock sweeping across his brow, at first glance Percival appeared the epitome of the tonnish rake most in society assumed him to be. Curtis, however, knew Percival for a man obsessed; Curtis knew for how many years and to what extent and expense Percival had gone to trace his missing relatives.
Curtis also knew why, and so wasn’t surprised by the hunger—the hope—behind the man’s crisp diction. “We believe they might have headed into Cornwall.”
“Cornwall?” Percival narrowed his eyes. “Why the devil would she have taken them there?”
“She has no connection with the area? No distant relatives, no old nurse—that sort of thing?”
Richard Percival thought, then, slowly, shook his head. “I’ve never heard of any such personal link, and, frankly, would be surprised. She’s Leicestershire born and bred.”
Curtis paused, then offered, “Cornwall is, more or less, as far as one can go from Lincolnshire. In fleeing Seddington Grange . . . it’s possible she just ran as far as she could, and then stopped.”
Richard Percival grimaced. After a moment, he looked at Curtis. “You said you believe they might have gone to Cornwall—on what grounds, and are you sure?”
“A woman fitting her description, with two children, was seen in Exeter, but it was years ago, exactly how long ago we can’t be sure. We’re certain enough of the identification—the man I’ve got down there knows his business. But as to whether she and they are still down there . . .” Curtis shrugged. “With a trail this cold, it’s impossible to say.”
Frustration broke through Richard Percival’s mask. “Damn it! There must be some way of pushing harder, more decisively.”
Unmoved by the uncharacteristic outburst, Curtis paused, then, clasping his hands on his blotter, quietly asked, “Your instructions were—still are—that you want this kept quiet, with no dust raised whatsoever.” Curtis met Richard Percival’s dark blue eyes. “Has that changed?” He let a moment elapse before adding, “Because, yes, I can go much harder. I could raise a hue and cry, the next best thing to a manhunt, if that’s what you want.”
Richard Percival blew out a breath. “No. No.” After a moment, he drew in a deep breath and said, “Whatever reason she had for taking them and fleeing that night . . . until I have them back and can learn what that reason was . . .” Eyes narrowing, he stared
into space, then murmured, “If at all possible, I want this kept entirely confidential.”
Curtis nodded. “In that case, I’ll send more men down tomorrow. We’ll need to move slowly and carefully, but our information is that they left Exeter and headed west. Into Cornwall.”
Richard Percival sat silently for several seconds, then he rose and crisply nodded. “Send in your hounds—and keep me apprised of anything they find.” Turning, he strode for the door.
Curtis watched him go. Even after the door had closed, Curtis continued to stare at the panels, then he sighed, shook his head, and got on with his work.
Chapter
4
The days rolled on, and with no summons from Fate eventuating, Thomas found himself looking for things to do, for activities to occupy his body and mind.
Recalling the Gattings, who had watched over the house since he’d bought it early in 1816, and who had always made his infrequent stays there comfortable and serene—comforting in truth—he decided that he should call on them and thank them for their years of exemplary service.
The following morning, over the breakfast table, he asked Rose—he and she had, by degrees, slid onto a first-name basis—where the old couple lived.
“In Porthleven, in a little cottage in Shute Lane. That’s just off the harbor, before you start up the hill to the east. Their cottage is Number four.”
He nodded, envisioning the town as he’d last seen it; it wouldn’t have changed. “I’m going to ride that way this morning once I check over the news sheets. I’d like to call and wish them well.”
Rose’s expression as she set down her teacup was approving. “I’m sure they would like to see you . . .” Her words trailed off, then she recovered and shrugged lightly. “To know you’re alive, if nothing else.”
She’d realized that the Gattings would remember him as he’d once been, not as he now was. He smiled with wry understanding. “Indeed.”
Rose colored faintly and reached for the teapot. “It’s not as if you’re incapacitated. Whatever your accident was, you’ve survived and continue to live. Continue to make something of your life.”
He studied her, trying to decide which part of her view of him most confounded him—her apparent blindness to the scars that disfigured the left side of his face, to his habitual gimping gait, or her confident assertion that he was actively living and forging a life, by implication a life worth living.
To his mind, he was in stasis, not living so much as existing, waiting to make his final payment in retribution for his past sins.
Which of them was correct—her or him?
Or could they both be right?
Shaking aside the distraction, he glanced to his left, at Homer’s bright head, then looked at Rose and caught her eye. “I was wondering if I might take Homer for a ride, too. An excursion for the day.” He’d noticed the boy was growing physically restless; a day of exercise would do him good.
Homer’s head shot up, his expression beyond eager. He fixed his blue eyes on Rose. “Please. I’ll do my chores, too—I won’t forget.”
Rose hesitated. She wasn’t immune to the plea in Homer’s eyes; she understood, indeed, shared his longing to venture beyond the confines of the manor. More, she accepted that boys of his age needed to be out and about more, but she couldn’t risk being seen with him. The pair of them together would be much more identifiable than either of them individually. Yet, equally, she couldn’t allow him to venture forth on his own. . . .
Shifting her gaze to Thomas, she nodded. “All right.” Thomas would keep Homer safe; she knew that to her bones. Allowing Thomas to take Homer out for the day was the perfect solution to her problems on that front; aside from all else, if the pair were seen, given the way they interacted—Thomas with Homer, and Homer with Thomas—they would be assumed to be father and son.
Yet another distracting veil to add to hers and the children’s safety.
Homer whooped.
Rose glanced at Pippin, now frowning slightly, her lower lip starting to protrude. Rose looked at Homer. “Consider being allowed to accompany Thomas as a reward for working so hard at your studies, and, after all, your birthday is coming up.”
Homer simply grinned. Stuffing the last of his toast into his mouth, he raised his mug and drained it, then pushed back his chair. “I’ll go and check the cow and the stables.” He glanced at Thomas. “Will you be long?”
“Maybe an hour.” Thomas looked at Rose. “We’ll have lunch there, and be back for afternoon tea.”
She nodded crisply. A glance at Pippin showed a much more amenable, accepting face; the mention of Homer’s birthday had done the trick.
Homer dashed to the back door and went out.
Thomas pushed back his chair. Rose glanced at him and realized he’d followed her gaze to Pippin. “Pippin,” he said, “you were going to show me the dress you’ve made for your doll. If you like, you could show it to me now—I have a little time before we go.”
Pippin’s little face lit. Nodding, she gulped the last of her milk, then flung a smile at Rose and pushed back her chair. “I’ll go and get Dolly—she’s still asleep.”
Thomas nodded solemnly. “I’ll be in the library—come and show me there.”
Pippin raced off, shoes clattering.
Down the length of the short table, Rose met Thomas’s gaze. “That was . . . brave of you.”
His lips quirked lightly. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”
Pushing up from the table, he started gathering plates.
She rose and did the same, taking the stack to the sink.
He followed with the rest.
They’d fallen into a small domestic ritual; she would wash the dishes and he would dry them and put them away.
She was very aware that neither of them had been born to such duties, yet they performed them now without complaint; their lives, the decisions they had made, had brought them to this.
She knew that was true for herself, and she intuitively knew it was true for him, too.
But that morning . . .
Standing before the sink, the plates she’d ferried from the table already in the bowl, she waited for him to set the stack he’d carried on the bench-top beside her.
He did and paused, looking down at her. His gaze was on the side of her face; she could feel it.
And awareness flared—the sensual yearning both of them were being so careful to hide, to suppress.
Regardless, its very existence made her feel alive.
Alive in a way she’d never felt before.
Even though nothing could ever come of it, it still stole her breath, still made her blood sing.
Raising her chin, she stared out at the rear garden, fighting the compulsion to shift her gaze to him, to his face, to his fascinating eyes. Eyes that seemed so clear, so open—unrestricted gateways to his soul.
Her lungs had grown tight, but she found breath enough to say, “I’ll take care of all this today—you’d better get into the library, or Pippin will be disappointed.”
He didn’t immediately move. After a moment, he said, “I really don’t know anything about dolls.”
She smiled. “But you do know something of dresses.” She cast him a very brief sidelong glance. “The trick is to pretend the doll is real, like a frozen lady, and comment accordingly.”
“Ah.” He nodded, then dipped his head. “In that case, I’d better go and do my duty.”
He moved away, heading for the door.
Before he reached it, she swung around and said, “Thomas.” When he paused and looked at her, she met his gaze directly. “Thank you. From both me and them.” But especially from me.
His lips curved cynically. “No thanks required. I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted to—if I didn’t think I’d enjoy Homer’s company as much as he’ll enjoy the outing.”
She’d noticed that was a habit of his, downplaying his acts of kindness. She arched an equally cynical brow back. “And Pippin
?”
The curve of his lips deepened. As he turned away, he said, “That, I believe, you should view as an attempt to keep the peace.”
She snorted, then, shaking her head at his ways, reached for the kettle.
Several hours later, Thomas guided Silver down the hill into Porthleven, Homer on the pony trotting alongside.
The ride from the manor along the cliffs had been uneventful. Silver had wanted to canter, but the pony’s shorter legs wouldn’t keep up; Thomas had had to rein the gray in, and Silver was now disgusted, trudging along in the equivalent of a horsey sulk.
But the steep descent into the tiny harbor village had them all looking about, even Silver.
The day had started fine, but light clouds had blown up, intermittently blocking the sun. Now that they were by the shore, the breeze had stiffened a touch but remained more flirtatious than forceful.
They had come into the village around the western headland; the harbor and village lay in the steep cleft between the twin headlands, where the land descended sharply to meet the waves of the Channel.
Whitewashed buildings lined the cobbled road that encircled the small harbor. A seawall extended from the western shore across the harbor mouth, protecting many small sailing and fishermen’s boats bobbing at anchor behind it from the sometimes destructive swells of the Channel. From the eastern headland opposite, a breakwater curved out and across, creating a barrier to shield the entrance to the harbor itself, the gap between the end of the seawall and the quay lining the eastern shore.
The village had grown up around the stone quays bordering the three sides of the harbor, with most houses scattered up the long slope of the eastern headland.
Shute Lane was easy to find, on the eastern side just above the harbor. Thomas and Homer drew rein outside Number 4, a tiny fisherman’s cottage with bright spring flowers in a box along the front window.
Gatting answered Thomas’s knock. Now old and wizened, and heavily dependent on the cane over which he hunched, Gatting covered his shock at Thomas’s injuries, yet, regardless, it was plain that the old man was pleased to see him.
Thomas hadn’t intended to go inside, to, as he’d thought of it, impose on the old couple’s hospitality, but Gatting would have none of it, and when he called Mrs. Gatting to the door and she added her entreaties, Thomas realized he couldn’t—shouldn’t—refuse them.